


The Adventure of the Tattooed Doctor.

by Lestradesexwife



Series: Tattooed Doctor Watson [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Assisted Masturbation, Demisexual Sherlock, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Masturbation, Pre Reichenbach, Reichenbach Falls, Tattoos, bright pink sex toys, which means there will be sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-13 08:06:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lestradesexwife/pseuds/Lestradesexwife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John partially subsidized university by working as a tattoo artist. Something he successfully kept from Sherlock until after their trip to Buckingham Palace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It isn’t the first time John has seen Sherlock’s skin, he’s cleaned enough cuts, seen enough of Sherlock’s bare arms as he works at the kitchen table. John decides that it must have been the sheet, that expanse of skin, so pure that it was an extension of the sheet. Making Sherlock look like a Greek statue, carved of marble.

****

He knows what people will think, if they knew that the sight of that skin had made his fingers twitch. They wouldn’t be entirely wrong, but not for the reasons they would think.

****

John starts drawing between patients at the surgery, on the back of Tesco’s receipts and while he is waiting for Sherlock to give statements to Greg. He draws the chemical formulas for nicotine and adrenaline. Various combinations of the skull, violin and guns. A little white pill;  hoping it might teach him humility. A taxi, 221B, and SH in every font he can think of. He draws a pin up girl with Irene’s face and watches as it burns in the fireplace. He’s sure Ella would have words to say about that if he still saw her.

****

He contemplates tribal, Japanese, vintage and modern styles. He’s not sure he put this much thought into his own tattoos, he draws until his fingers ache and he is sure Sherlock will notice.

****

He catches himself walking back and forth through the kitchen, extra trips through Sherlock’s space to steal glimpses of Sherlock’s nape as he bends over the microscope.  It would be a waste to slap random bits of flash onto Sherlock’s perfect blank canvas. His skin demands a work of art, John chews his lip as he draws. The more he draws the farther away he feels from Sherlock, feels that he only knows the surface of the man. There is so much he doesn’t know about the man before... they never speak about the drugs. Sherlock may have even deleted it.

****

John smiles and sketches the solar system, the constellations, and the phases of the moon.

****

It was only a matter of time before Sherlock catches him at it, “I didn’t know you could draw.” He’s offended, as though John has been hiding it from him. That’s fair because John had been hiding it from everyone. He hadn’t told Ella, because he was afraid she would make him try art therapy and he didn’t want to have to explain that his medium wasn’t paint and canvas but ink and skin, electricity and blood.

****

He’d shown promise in school, his art teachers had been supportive, letting him work in a variety of styles. He just didn’t have the patience for flat art... there was something about the irreversible nature of tattooing that had appealed to him immediately. He quirks his lip, now he sees that it is obviously an extension of his adrenaline addiction. His hand perfectly steady as he carved images into skin. He’d started his apprenticeship in his first year at uni, working unpaid at first, learning the trade and practicing his line work on bananas and oranges. By med school he had his own chair, and an impressive client list.

****

He’d needed more so he’d joined the army, more excitement, more adrenaline, more danger. He’d taken his machine with him. Snuck it into the sterilizer in the field hospital whenever one of the unit worked up the courage to ask for some ink. His reputation had grown through word of mouth until he’d had to turn away more clients than he took. Ink was impossible to get in the desert, he’d rationed it as best he could.

****

The bullet wound had ruined his shoulder piece, scar tissue fused with ink and torn flesh. He’d packed up the machine and thrown away the ink, deciding to forget. Until Mycroft put his foot down and revealed an irresistible blank canvas.

****

Now John laughs in the face of Sherlock’s indignation, “Like you don’t have secrets, Mr. Plays the Violin when he’s thinking.” He went back to his drawing, a folded paper lotus, he has a whole collection of clues from old cases shoved in a shoebox under his bed. Trophys from cases solved, but nothing personal to Sherlock. And he can’t bring himself to ask.

****

The more he drew the more he realizes that Sherlock does not have preferences. The books on his shelf are wide ranging, but lack anything approaching a pattern for John to discern. The skull on the mantle and the skulls on the walls are the only things that held in terms of decor. John draws several depictions of the Grim Reaper, before deciding that it is too obvious. He draws the cow skull with its headphones, adds that one to the collection of things he thinks Sherlock might like. Adds a simple yellow happy face pocked with bullet holes while he is at it, he doesn’t think he could use that one. He isn’t sure, but he thinks colour would be garish, Sherlock’s pale skin is perfect for black and grey.

****

Then there is a case, the suspect identified by a visible tattoo. Sherlock expounds at length on the futility of devoting yourself to a life of crime and adding identifying marks to your skin. John lets him rant, and when he runs himself down asks, “You’ve never wanted a tattoo?”

****

“Don’t be absurd John, why would I....” The crease above his eyes that indicates true confusion and surprise is going to become permanent at this rate. John purses his lips and waits for Sherlock to ask, “John, you have tattoos.” He poses it as a statement, but there is the barest hint of an uplift on the last syllable.

****

John warms, he’s managed to keep something truly to himself in the presence of Sherlock Holmes. He’s confident he’s one of a very small group that can lay claim to that, “I do. Paid for a good chunk of school working in a tattoo shop.” He smiles because Sherlock is completely taken aback by this declaration.

****

He’d gone quiet after that, John expected him to ask to see them. Instead he disappeared into his mind palace, fingers steepled under his chin and eyes roving over invisible information. If John thinks about it too much he is staggered under the weight of the implication. Sherlock saves information about John, deleted the cosmos and stores every bit of trivia about John in that massive brain of his. John purses his lips and lets the thought slide past him, that he could be the most important thing in Sherlock’s universe, and they had only known each other a year.

****

Later, in a break between cases but before boredom sets in, “The drawings are for me.”

****

“Yes.” No point in trying to evade or distract. He knew Sherlock has been through the box upstairs, he’ll know what each one meant.

****

“You don’t have any ink.” Sherlock has found the machine then.

****

“Nope.” John wasn’t sure he knows where this is going, “I’d probably need new needles too. And it needs to be sterilized.”

****

“You’d do it.”

****

“Sherlock, are you asking me to tattoo you?” He needs this, has needed it since the Palace. His fingers twitch, suddenly demanding the vibration of the machine. And he thinks about the crystal ashtray, how he could bring it to life on Sherlock’s skin. The thing that started it all, black and grey and white on pale skin. He can practically taste it, offers a tiny prayer that Sherlock isn’t serious. John doesn’t think he would be able to stop once he began this, not until Sherlock’s skin is drenched in symbolism and John’s ink.

****

“I want them all.” Sherlock’s eyes are sharp and clear, his face is glowing. John’s never considered facial tattoos a good idea, but suddenly he wants to shave Sherlock’s hair, hide secrets there, so close to his mind.

****

John closes his eyes, turns his head away. His heart pounds in his chest, because this is too much. He wanted it, needed it even. Once offered it is overwhelming and he has no idea where to begin. Except for the part of his brain that is already making lists of necessary supplies: Ink, needles, a photocopier (should he buy one or can they use one at Bart’s? definitely not at the Yard), a new motor, transfer paper, surgical gloves. He wonders if it would be easier to reach out to a tattoo shop. He still has connections in the tattoo world, he could find a shop that would let him work privately. He’s not looking for clients, he only wants Sherlock’s skin.

****

God. He wants Sherlock’s skin.

****

He licks his lips, “You are sure.”

****

“John.”

****

Of course he is sure, he never says anything that he isn’t fully committed to. John lets his head hang down between his shoulders, he speaks to the space on the floor between his shoes part rug, part hardwood, the edge of his chair just visible in cross-section, “I... the box... that wouldn’t be the end of it.” John means that he can’t stop thinking of new things to put on Sherlock’s skin. Even now he is thinking of music, wrapped around Sherlock’s bow arm like the column of Trajan. He plans scale, he’d have to be sure the entire piece of music would fit on the arm. Something Sherlock has composed or the work of another? He’d do it slowly, wrapping each bar around Sherlock’s wrist, work his way up to the elbow. His mind crashes to a halt over the skin of Sherlock’s elbow, the lines too delicate to transverse the wrinkled skin. Impossible to just break the flow of the music, his head snaps up, desperate to see the skin again.

****

“I need to see.”

****

Sherlock stands, the distance between their chairs has never seemed small before. John’s head snaps to the side, checking the door to the sitting room is closed against Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock’s never been modest before, and he’s fairly sure Mrs. Hudson has been treated to a free show on more than one occasion. This is different, John needs to see every inch of Sherlock. He needs to know where every one of Sherlock’s marks are, the texture of his knees and elbows.

****

Sherlock is neat and efficient, his motions clipped and almost formal. He turns at the waist as his shirt slips over his back, tossing it onto his chair. John’s breath snags in his throat at the sight of his skin, pulled taut over the muscles and bones of his chest. He’s not worthy of this, he can’t be worthy of this skin. John knows that he is lost, he’s never needed something this much. He shouldn’t need to be able to map every freckle from memory in order to apply a tattoo properly.

****

He’s lost and it has already begun. He doesn’t know if it started when Sherlock said his name, the single syllable that managed to convey Sherlock’s need for this. His agreement in the form of needing to see his skin. He’s lost and it started with a helicopter ride.

****

Sherlock’s fingers were swift and sure on his shirt, they flutter and pause over the flies of his trousers, “John.” This time Sherlock is asking permission, asking if it is alright for him to give John everything.

****

“It is fine Sherlock, it is all fine. Please.”

****

Sherlock’s movements are mechanical, fluid, more graceful than he has any right to be stripping down until his bare skin glows in the afternoon sun of Baker street. John rejects the image of circuitry, or gears. Sherlock is not a machine, no matter his claims to the contrary, “Turn.”

****

Sherlock displays himself, turning every inch of his skin towards John’s eye. Lifts each of his legs in turns and lets John look, shows him hamstrings and groin. The soft core of his armpit, places no one sane would consider tattooing. But then neither of them are fully sane.

****

John sits in his chair, his fingers digging furrows into his thighs. Forces himself only to look, to overcome the twitching in his fingers. The need to catalogue every texture of Sherlock’s remarkable skin. His fingers already know so many of the small spaces on Sherlock’s body.

****

There is a new measurement of time, he can’t remember what it is to count time in minutes and hours, there is only the amount of time that it takes John’s eyes to travel the distance around Sherlock.

****

“John.” It is broken this time and brings John back to his own skin.

****

“I have pens, we can work on placements. We need so many things first Sherlock,” John’s voice breaks, tortured by the expanse of time that must pass before they can truly begin.

****

There is an abortive motion of Sherlock’s head, and the smallest noise in the back of his throat. It might as well be a roar, _go now, I need it, please John, I can’t..._ But some part of Sherlock’s mind must know that it is not as simple as running down to Tesco for more milk.

****

John is out of his chair and sprinting up the stairs before the curls on Sherlock’s head settle. The box of drawings, his pens and his digital camera. So he can take pictures, he can’t type worth shit but he managed to learn enough photoshop to move placements around. He forces a deep breath into his diaphragm before he goes back downstairs.

****

Sherlock is statue still, glorious in his skin in the centre of the sitting room. For all his concern John has left the sitting room door open, “Shit, I’m sorry.” He doesn’t know if he is apologizing for the door or for not having started yet.

 **  
**He pulls Sherlock down onto the floor, sits cross legged next to him and pulls his bow arm close to begin the music.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Design, destruction and some good old fashioned anal penetration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moonblossom did some awesome Tattoo!lock images, and while I had been ruminating on tattoo!lock for some time much is owed to her for providing motivation and eyecandy in the form of these beautiful manips  and  and not to forget 
> 
> My love and devotion belong to a_xmasmurder and Lapotter, without whom this chapter would be stuck in the purgatory of unending self doubt and writer's block. All errors are of course my own.

The pens scratch Sherlock’s skin, not enough to hurt or draw blood, but just enough that Sherlock feels each line. He cooperates, begins to sense the rhythm of John’s motions. This drawing wasn’t in the box Sherlock had discovered ineffectively concealed under John’s bed. It becomes recognizable as a blank music staff, curling up his arm to his elbow. He knows without John having to tell him that this sensation is nothing at all compared to the tattoo itself.

****

John stops at the crook of his elbow, rooting through the box of drawings until he finds the one he needs. Sherlock’s attention shifts from John’s drawing to his face, overwhelmed by the concentration and focus John pours onto his skin.

****

The soft warm comfort of John’s fingers against his skin soothes beside the sharp pressure of the pen. Sherlock lets himself drift on the sensations, too much contact for him to focus. He allows himself to participate in the push and pull of John’s demands on his skin, without having to make any decisions of his own.  

****

Sherlock comes back to himself some time later to find that John is no longer sitting beside him on the floor. Instead he is kneeling behind Sherlock, pressing sweeping curves over Sherlock’s shoulder and down across his shoulder blade. Sherlock is not sure what John is drawing, only that he can feel the ghost of John’s breath across his back. The warmth from John’s lungs raises gooseflesh and Sherlock realizes he is cold and stiff.

****

There is a sharper breath as John curses, a rustle of paper as John pushes aside a myriad of drawings. Finds the one he needs and presses the pen into Sherlock’s skin again.

****

“John.” His voice feels cracked, disused. He wonders if they have been sitting there for hours or days. The trail of air across Sherlock’s nape makes him repress a shiver. Somewhere along their path he has acknowledged John’s demand for stillness. John’s lips are so close to his skin. The light from the street lamps can’t be enough for John to see by properly, but his focus has narrowed to points on Sherlock’s skin and the tip of the pen.

****

“ _Almost_.” John doesn’t say finished, because it isn’t. Almost means somewhere John can bear to stop. A movement completed. Sherlock closes his eyes, doesn’t let his head drop between his shoulders, doesn’t have to straighten his spine. He counts the time that has elapsed so far. His research indicates that this much tattoo could take anywhere between five and twenty hours to complete. The few answers he was able to find online were vague to the point of uselessness. Too many factors; the speed of the artist, colour and shading, pain tolerances and the need for rest between sessions. The majority of the information on tattoos seemed to be coloured by dire and obviously fabricated warnings about disease, death and permanent unemployment.

****

There is no flourish to indicate John is finished; just a prolonged lack of pen and the absence of the steady rhythm of John’s breath over Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock holds position through the creak of John’s knees as he rises, the shuffle of papers across the floor as they are packed back into the shoe box. He opens his eyes and turns his face towards John.

****

“Alright?” John’s pupils are blown wide. With only the light from the street lamps outside in the room his eyes are trying to provide as much data as they can.

****

“Yes, of course.”

****

“I’m sorry.”

****

Sherlock waves his hand, the one attached to the arm John hasn’t worked on yet, to dismiss John’s fears. Sherlock is already beginning to think of portions of his body in terms of John’s work, his flesh given over fully. He shudders, and fails to resist the urge to give himself over as John’s canvas. It should be an intrusion, John’s drawings are pieces of Sherlock, given back to him in ink. John remaking Sherlock as John sees him, covering over Sherlock’s self image with one better suited.

****

He accepts John’s hands to help him to his feet. He doesn’t require the assistance but it will do much to assuage John’s guilt. Sherlock is aware that he has been immobile for much longer periods, in much harsher conditions than this.

****

Allowing John to pull him forward, through the kitchen and into the lav. The light is harsh when John flicks it on, the tile morgue pale. It is even cooler here and his skin prickles, nipples tightening.

****

John notices the change in his skin. “God, Sherlock. I’m sorry...” He fumbles with the camera, trying to turn it on and angle Sherlock into the light at the same time, “Let me... Let me take pictures... the placements... and then.”

****

Sherlock raises his arm, presenting it for John’s camera, “John, stop apologizing, it’s tedious. I’m fine. It’s fine.” John’s been living with the burden of desire for so long now he doesn’t know how to process fulfillment. Sherlock’s desire is fresh, he needs this as much as John does, but he has had less time to live in the fullness of wanting.

****

The camera flashes and Sherlock looks away, watching their reflections instead. John’s fingers move his arm, turning it to capture his outlines, the sketch that precedes a masterwork.

****

Sherlock can’t see details at this angle. He can follow the spiral of the staff up to his elbow. The rest is shrouded in mystery, turned towards the lens of John’s camera. He has a vivid imagination, endless possibilities crawl over his skin, across his torso and down his legs, like ivy covering a building.  

****

His attention shifts to John’s reflection. Even now, his focus is singular - brow furrowed and lips tight as he reviews pictures on the camera, reaching up to turn Sherlock further into the light before snapping several more images.

****

John’s sigh is permission to turn and examine himself in the mirror. The lines of the staff twist apart at his elbow wrapping around the flexible part of the joint to create a nearly blank space. Bent so the skin is smooth it becomes the outline of an anatomical drawing of a heart. The lines gather again across the back of his arm, thickening into representations of organic chemical bonds: nicotine, adrenaline and hemoglobin. The bonds break off into nine concentric rings centered off the ball of his shoulder.

****

“Pluto?”

****

“It is symbolic Sherlock.”

****

“Sentiment, over a chunk of rock you will never set foot on.” He closes his eyes and traces his finger across the marks. “They are perfect John, thank you.”

****

“Sherlock.” John’s eyes are sharp and hard when Sherlock opens his and meets his gaze in the mirror, “Sherlock... don’t. You shouldn’t let me do this. I don’t understand why you would let me do this. But if you are going to allow it, just don’t lie. If you hate it, if you want something different, or if  you need me to stop...” John’s fist tightens against his hip, eyes close and head turns away for a moment, his body rejecting the idea of stopping once this starts, “Please, it is too much for me on my own... I need you to tell me, and _never ever lie_.”

****

Sherlock is frozen, transfixed by the movement in John’s hand as he works his fingers loose. He considers calling the halt that John so desperately does not want and his heart pounds. He’s seen every image John has compiled, all the pieces of their life together. He opens his mouth, “You are an idiot,” words fall from his lips before he can stop or consider them, and John bristles again.

****

“John. All of them.”

****

John stares at him, an eternity in their cold stark bathroom before he nods sharply and turns to the sink. He moves to the taps and pulls down a clean flannel from the rack, filling the sink with warm water and scrubbing soap into a flannel, “Come here.”

****

“Why?”

****

“I have the photos, let me clean that off. Make sure I didn’t scratch you up too much.” It is an evasion, John is careful and Sherlock’s skin is unbroken. Sherlock closes the distance between them anyway, offering his arm to John again.

****

John scrubs, rubbing soap and water over Sherlock’s skin until nothing remains of the outline. The warm water sends fine tendrils of sensation along his nerves. The brush of the back of John’s fingers over his ribs diverts blood flow to his cock. He’d focused on the contact and it had been easy to ignore the sensations in the rest of his body while John was working. John’s concentration is no longer focused on the intersection of pen and skin, he’s cataloguing and exploring. His touch overwhelms Sherlock’s defenses and he rolls his neck to the side, exposing the long line of his throat to John.

****

John is behind him, erasing a memory of the solar system. Sherlock must have closed his eyes again because he only hears the wet slapping sound of the cloth hitting the tile floor, doesn’t see it drop from John’s fingers. “Not here.” John’s voice is a ghost in his ear, his fingers trace over the tendons of his neck, resting over his pulse, “Nowhere you can’t cover with clothing.” He removes his fingers, and Sherlock opens his eyes to protest, to track the motion of John’s hand.

****

John’s hand describes the long low curve of his collar. Deep enough that even sitting curled over the microscope there is no chance of ink accidently showing. Sherlock turns towards him as John’s fingers cross to his chest, describing the arc of his shirt open to the second button. It is precise, John knows exactly how much skin he must relinquish for the sake of secrecy.

****

“And my arms?” The idea of keeping his chest free but tattooing his forearms seems irrational.

****

“You don’t roll your sleeves up in public.” His fingers skim over Sherlock’s shoulder and down the length of his arm, stopping at a point above where his cuffs rest, an area of that is visible despite shirt cuffs. The tan line that had told Sherlock John had been overseas. The memory of John’s sketch begins too high for casual glances, “You don’t... if you wanted to cover them you could.”

****

John doesn’t let his hand drop from Sherlock’s wrist, “I... you are... I haven’t spent this much time with anyone.” John is ignoring his string of girlfriends, and Sherlock fights against irrational jealousy biting back, _you haven’t been with me_. “I’m not good at this... and I haven’t... God there are so many things I haven’t done properly...” John licks his lips, and Sherlock allows himself to watch the progress of John’s tongue over his lip. “I’m not really...” He coughs and starts again, fingers sliding over Sherlock’s pulse, “Watching you... the work. There is so much that you let me see, that no one else does.”

****

“Yes. John.” Obvious, and not at all what John wants to know. Sherlock answers John’s unspoken request for everything. He can feel John’s desire to stroke twitching in his fingers, the force of will required for John to hold steady against Sherlock’s pulse.

****

John’s eyes close, he turns his head away, “It isn’t just the surface... Christ, Sherlock... I want... please, Sherlock. I don’t know... how - I need so much.”

****

Nothing Sherlock can say, no movement he can make can answer this. It feels cliched to beg, to demand that John’s fingers never stop touching him. Far too intense to scoff at, even if the idea of trying to push John away from this edge could be borne. His silence is long enough that John takes it for rejection and begins to withdraw.

****

“I’m not afraid, no matter what _Mycroft_ said. I’ve never been afraid of it.” John’s fingers tighten against his wrist. “You wouldn’t have to... I know you don’t... you aren’t. I can do it myself.” Sherlock’s eyes are clear and he holds John’s gaze when it returns to his.

****

He’d struggled at first, weighted down by the expectation that he was supposed to be aroused by people he didn’t know, frustration upon frustration as he tried to construct scenarios in his mind. He’d finally given up, allowed himself to experience pleasure without imagining anyone else involved. An awkward and ill-timed conversation with Mycroft on the need for prophylactics had left Mycroft with the impression that Sherlock is uninterested in sex.

****

Sherlock is not uninterested in sex, he is uninterested in _people_. A distinction he has never bothered to explain to Mycroft, and one that has proven useful in preventing Mycroft’s meddling in his social life. So he masturbates. He’d found a sex toy store staffed by a cabal of ancient lesbians. Made a fairly scientific study of the effectiveness of several of the toys and feels that overall he has a healthy relationship with sexual pleasure. He’s never felt the need to include anyone else in his sex life, but here and now with John’s fingers digging into his wrist he finds that he wants... he’s not even sure what he wants. He is not sure how John fits into his sexual experiences.

****

John sees the flicker of uncertainty in Sherlock’s eyes and his resolve hardens. John’s back straightens and his shoulders lift, “Show me.”

****

Sherlock moves, letting John’s grip on his wrist bring him along behind. It falls away as they cross the threshold into Sherlock’s bedroom, but John doesn’t falter, the click of the catch as John closes the door behind them confirms John’s participation.

****

Sherlock opens his sock drawer and retrieves his prefered lubricant and runs his fingers over the box of toys. His favourite is a shocking shade of pink, and he pauses before picking it up. This isn’t about impressing John. It is about letting him see all the pleasure Sherlock is capable of having.

****

He can’t decide if he wants to look at John or not. He’s not uncomfortable with the idea of masturbating in front of John. The one fantasy he has managed to build is that John will walk in on him while he has his hand wrapped around his cock and the toy buzzing in his arse. He lets his hand drift over his abdomen, the sharp noise from John bringing Sherlock’s eyes up.

****

Sherlock smirks. “It is my understanding that most heterosexual men avoid their prostate. More’s the pity for them.”

****

John opens his mouth to answer, thinks better of it and closes it again. His eyes drift, settling on Sherlock’s hand on his stomach.

Sherlock tosses one of his pillows into the centre of the bed, rearranges the others to support his head. There is no need to seduce John so he just arranges himself comfortably. His fingers ghost over his cock, pulling gently to revive his erection. He doesn’t need preparation, but he slicks his fingers and plays them over his arse, watching John’s eyes go wide and his breath quicken.

Sherlock spreads his legs and hitches his hips up, working his fingers deeper inside himself, the strokes on his cock coming faster and firmer than before; little sparks of sensation flickering along his nerves. He wants John to have everything; he doesn’t know why, but that seems unimportant. John is here and John needs everything Sherlock can give, John wants to take it and pass it back to Sherlock cleansed of Sherlock’s faults.

********  


John is standing at the end of the bed, his bottom lip caught in his teeth and his eyes focused on Sherlock’s cock and his arse. The entirety of John’s attention is now narrowed to the study of Sherlock’s pleasure. John’s breathing is shallow and his knuckles are white where they grip the footboard.

**  
**Sherlock’s hips buck up, thrusting his cock through his fist and his fingers slip from inside. He groans, the idea of John watching him overpowering his control. He fumbles for the lube and toy, needs to release his cock to spread lube over its shaft. Contorting his knee to reach under himself pressing into himself slowly, working deeper by increments. He’s never bothered with imagery before, having always been satisfied with the sensation alone. Now he can see himself from John’s perspective: his arse stretched around the obscenely pink toy, cock twitching against his stomach, long line of his neck thrown back and exposed. Sherlock arches his back, pushing the toy deeper until it nudges against his prostate. He sighs, pleasure coursing through him, his body relaxing and his hand resumes stroking his cock.

 

The bed dips as John settles next to him, still near the foot of the bed and on the side where Sherlock’s knee is raised, allowing an unobstructed view of both the toy and the movement of Sherlock’s hand over his cock.

********  


Sherlock flips the little switch in the base of the toy, years of practice and familiarity adjusting the toy to the second highest setting. He’s silent as the vibrations send waves of pleasure through him, but his hand speeds again on his cock, twisting over his foreskin and rocking up into his hand.

********  


He’s close when John’s fingers brush over the curve of his foot, and he has to pry his eyes open. John’s other hand is reaching forward, extending towards Sherlocks arse and the base of the toy. Sherlock allows an audible inhalation, but can’t form the words _god, yes, please, john_.

********  


The change in vibration as John’s fingers close over the base of the toy forces a gasp from Sherlock’s lips, and his hips press into the contact. Sherlock slows his strokes, determined to draw out as much pleasure as he can as John begins shallowly moving the toy inside him.

********  


The small part of his brain that still functions analytically posits that if anyone other than John was there his reactions would not be as intense. His connection to John allows him to experience this level of pleasure.

********  


John is demanding, the fingers of his right hand curl around Sherlock’s ankle, pressing his leg up towards his stomach, giving John more room to slide the toy deeper into Sherlock. He thinks that he ought to struggle, to be unable to decide whether he wants to push back towards John or up into his hand. Instead John’s thrusts dictate his motions, pushing him forward and sliding back at John’s whim.

********  


John speeds his thrusts, pushing deeper and harder than before. Sherlock’s back arches and his hand flies over his cock, a deep groan splitting through the quiet gasps of breath that have been the only sounds in the room.

********  


The sound that rips itself from Sherlock’s chest when John’s hand disappears is devastating. His eyes fly open and he lifts his head, thinking that some line has been crossed and John has come to his senses. His hand freezes at the top of his stroke, cupping the head of his cock in his palm.

********  


John is kneeling between Sherlock’s legs, one hand on his fly and the other clutching the bottle of lubricant. Sherlock looks him in the eye, holding his gaze just long enough to read John’s need before he resumes the stroke, letting his head fall back again and his eyes close.

********  


Sherlock listens, the soft whump of strained cotton releasing around the button of John’s fly, and then the zip, and the soft shuffle as John pushes down his jeans and pants to free his cock. The sharp crack of the lube, and the indecent sounds of a squeeze bottle more empty than full. The exhalation that comes as John slicks himself.

********  


He’s gentle as he removes the toy, sliding it out slowly, but rocking it back into Sherlock to give him something to thrust into.

********  


John lets the natural rhythm of their thrusts dictate when the toy is removed, sliding it out all the way and dropping it, still buzzing, behind him on the bed. Sherlock has enough time to register pressure and warmth against his hips before John’s cock breaches his arse. He’s scrambling, fingers catching on the sleeves of John’s jumper, back arching to force John deeper, faster, now.

********  


John’s head is bent, watching his cock as it sinks into Sherlock’s arse, a long low growl forcing itself up through John’s throat and out his mouth.

********  


_John’s cock... penetrating... his arse_. Sherlock wishes he could see, wishes John still had his camera and would take pictures, needs to see John enter him. He reaches between them and runs his finger along the edge between them. John groans again and snaps his hips forward, the skin of his balls slapping against Sherlock.

********  


Sherlock arches under John, planting his feet and shifting upwards, pushing John deeper and pulling another moan from both their chests.

********  


John’s arms hook under Sherlock’s legs and hold him close as he rocks them together, at first just tiny thrusts that push ever deeper into Sherlock. Then with a sharp cry he presses Sherlock’s legs to his chest and pulls back all the way. Watching the full thrust of his cock into Sherlock makes John’s cock impossibly harder. He throws his head back and thrusts twice more before burying himself deeply in Sherlock and pulsing his orgasm in hard sharp jerks into Sherlock.

********  


Sherlock knows that it is the sound John makes as he comes that pushes him, finally, over the edge. Every nerve in his body lights and sparks as his cock pulses in his motionless hand.

**  
**He registers the lack of sound that means John has shut off the vibrator, and the quick swipe of a discarded item of clothing over his chest before the quilt is pulled up over him and John settles beside him, still clothed against Sherlock’s nakedness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, hello. Wow. *straightens bow tie, smoothes hair* 
> 
> Well. Ah.  
> There are rather a lot of you reading this.  
> *blushes*
> 
> Um. I hope you liked this chapter.  
> *remembers mantra*
> 
> (no but seriously let me love you all!)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our boys engage in almost entirely unhealthy relationship building via a bit of rough sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter owes many many things to Interrosand for the beta, and making sure that things that make sense inside my brain also make sense outside my brain.
> 
> Also to a_xmasmurder and provocatrixxx for cheerleading.

He sleeps, exhaustion and hormones inducing him to curl up next to Sherlock. When John wakes Sherlock is curled on his side, away from John, tight and contained. The curve of Sherlock’s spine is visible above the duvet, John’s fingers curl to keep himself from running the pads over the lumps formed by Sherlock’s vertebrae. He slides out of bed, turning his face away and concentrating on the placement of his feet as he navigates in the semi-darkness of the morning.

****

Closing the door behind him feels like shutting Sherlock out, so he turns the knob again and leaves the door ajar. He stops in the kitchen and flips the kettle on before crossing the threshold into the sitting room. Perhaps a  stranger wouldn’t see that anything had happened in this room barely twelve hours ago, but John sees signs of his weakness in the stray biro under the sofa. He stoops to pick it up, eliminating evidence, and tells himself that he absolutely cannot feel the warmth of Sherlock’s skin under his fingers.

****

He collapses down onto the couch, holding the pen so tight it ought to shatter in his hand. He senses the looming crash of wretchedness he ought to be feeling, the expectation that he ought to be panicking. He ought not to be so full of excitement and anticipation that he feels like he will vibrate out of his skin.

****

“John?” Sherlock is standing, mercifully draped in robe and pajamas, on the edge of the kitchen. Teetering on the brink of coming into the room, but painfully unsure of his welcome.

****

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I wanted to...” John wanted to touch, to never stop touching. “I needed to draw, I think. If... if you still want.”

****

Relief shatters the tension in Sherlock’s body, “John. When can we start?”

****

John’s heart resumes beating, and if it hadn’t been so utterly terrifying he would laugh. The mirrored fear, that the other would call a halt to this insanity, coupled with the devastation that would come from accepting the other’s wish to stop. He would, John knows, he would push all his desires down, destroy everything he has drawn and never speak of it again if Sherlock said the word no. He is terrified again, thinking perhaps they are running full speed towards each other waiting for the other to blink first.

****

John’s mouth is dry and he swallows hard, breaking Sherlock’s gaze to look down at the shoe box on the coffee table. “I don’t know. I have a friend... I think she works in town. I’m hoping I can get ink from her.” The list of things he needs to buy is long, and the price tag makes him wince. He wonders if Mary would let him work in her shop. The idea of working on Sherlock outside the cocoon of 221B almost makes him ill.  

****

“John, the kettle.”

****

John’s focus snaps back to the basic detail of existence, “Do you want tea? I have to look her up still, and shops don’t open for hours.” He’s not sure if they are going to talk about what happened last night. Do people have conversations about this sort of thing? His brain stutters to a halt even as his body continues the routine of making tea. He’s not sure how to classify the experience of last night. He’s had plenty of one night stands, and a fair number of proper relationships and had never once experienced something as intense as _that_.

****

The vision of Sherlock, completely and instantaneously given over to such incredible pleasure, drops John’s head between his shoulder and forces a moan from deep in his chest. John can’t bear to let himself doubt Sherlock, can’t bear the idea that he should be ashamed or conflicted about what happened.

****

Sherlock is closer to him than he would have been yesterday, nowhere near the personal boundary destroying closeness that is typical of Sherlock, but a definite hovering, just out of John’s line of sight. John is silent as he makes tea, knows that Sherlock can’t have missed the sound he made earlier. Perhaps he has decided to ignore John’s desire, he’d been willing enough to share his pleasure last night but Sherlock has never let matters of transport intrude on his focus.

****

John almost drops the mugs when he turns back to Sherlock, his long fingers clamped over the back of his chair, breathing shallow and his face twisted away, tendons in his neck straining. John almost regrets that he will not be able to wind ink up Sherlock’s neck, “Sherlock?” His voice is broken and harsh in his ears, tea sloshes over the edges of the mugs as they are abandoned on the table.

****

The new sound that emerges from John’s throat is somewhere between a sob and an exasperated laugh, with a touch of desperate groan thrown in for good measure, “Sherlock, what...” There is too much distance between them, made solid by the kitchen table. He’s careful, giving Sherlock plenty of time to pull away as he circles around the table, stops before he breaches Sherlock’s personal space. Stops himself before he can crowd against Sherlock, force him back against the wall and strip him naked. He digs his fingers into his pockets, presses his lips together into a thin line, afraid if he speaks he will demand Sherlock’s skin.

****

Sherlock’s grip remains tight on the back of the chair but his body sways towards John. John is almost sure that he imagines the sound that accompanies the motion, but there is no mistaking the hard line of Sherlock’s cock pushing against his pajamas. Sherlock’s head turns, eyes fixed on the floor at John’s feet, “Don’t. If you... don’t. It is fine. I just need time to... I can’t if you make that noise again. Please don’t...”

****

John blinks, struggling to parse Sherlock’s words into concepts that make any sense.  Understanding slams into John with the force of a high powered bullet. He struggles, pushing through his desire to find someway to express himself, something that isn’t merely pushing Sherlock over and claiming him, or raging at him for thinking John so cold that he would use him and toss him away when he is finished. He tries to imagine them without this, tries to imagine Sherlock as another of his one night stands and fails utterly. Tries to imagine Sherlock’s skin with his tattoos and nearly doubles over with the wave of arousal.

****

The spaces between them are obliterated, John isn’t entirely clear on the sequence of movements that began with him reaching for Sherlock’s hand on the chair and ended with Sherlock’s hands splayed, holding himself perfectly still as John pressed against him from behind. There are no wrenched arms, no solid thuds of body against the hard wood of the door and it is the most violent interaction John can imagine between them. Even now, John knows Sherlock is capable of throwing him off, that he’d hold his own, but if it came to blows it would go badly for John. He pushes air between his teeth, pressing his forehead into Sherlock’s shoulder and his cock, straining against his trousers, between Sherlock’s thighs. Sherlock’s body gives against the pressure, rolling against John and pulling another moan from John, “Please Sherlock, don’t...” He can feel the edge of his sanity, the gaping chasm of obsession; keeping Sherlock’s clothes hostage, his skin exposed to the air and John’s need, and his arse slick.

****

“You don’t want me.” Sherlock’s voice is tight, broken at the edges.

****

John rolls his hips, frustration and desire pushing a groan from his throat. John shifts, bringing his hands up to catch at the collar of Sherlock’s robe, trying to pull gently, to contain the need.  When the robe catches at Sherlock’s elbows it almost makes John scream. “Let me, please let me... Please, Sherlock, don’t say no.” John’s face is pressed hard against the space between Sherlock’s shoulders, the skin John thinks he will tattoo a skull on hidden by layers of cloth.

****

Sherlock’s arms fall to his sides and gravity pulls the robe away in ripples of silk. John pulls back to watch it fall, not far enough to lose the warmth from Sherlock’s body. Just enough to savour the release that its fall causes. Sherlock is still moving, twisting and stretching to pull his t-shirt over his head, John runs his fingers over the exposed skin of his ribs trailing down until he reaches the barrier of Sherlock’s pajama bottoms.

****

“Please.” John’s exhalation and Sherlock’s shudder blur together in the space between them. Sherlock presses his forehead against the door and plants his hands, pushing back towards John’s touch.

****

John’s hands are steady, demanding as he traces lines over Sherlock’s back. Pushes under the waistband and over the curve of Sherlock’s arse. Ignoring the part of his mind that would have him rip the cotton from Sherlock’s body, that would make a bonfire of every article of Sherlock’s clothing in Mrs. Hudson’s bins.

****

He makes himself calm as he pulls the fabric away from Sherlock, gentle as he slides his hands down over Sherlock’s thighs and lets the pajamas drop to the floor, adding to the sea of fabric that surrounds his feet. Careful to separate out the things that he wants to do from the things that a reasonable and sane person would allow themselves to do. He hopes it is enough, that he can still understand the distinction.

****

Sherlock slides against him, pushing back and stepping out of the pool of fabric. He stretches, arms high against the door, muscles tense and curve. He’s an incomplete work of art, without John’s ink. “Everything. I want everything from you.” His lips aren’t touching Sherlock’s skin, he wants to bite, taste, but he has lost his anchor. He trails the fingers of his left hand over the cleft of Sherlock’s arse, slipping between and finding him still slick and soft. The resistance John expects turns to demand as Sherlock’s spine curves, pulling him closer.

****

John’s forehead rests against Sherlock’s back, the air between them is full of sound but all John can comprehend is the texture of Sherlock’s skin and the demand for more. He fumbles, wrong handed, at the closures of his trousers. Driving his fingers deeper into Sherlock until he gets himself free of his pants and trousers enough to press his cock up beside his fingers. He spits on his hand and lets the motion of his thrusts into Sherlock coat his cock. His next thrust brings his fingers out and his cock slides past, stretching Sherlock open around him.

****

Sherlock shudders, muscles in his shoulders rolling as he pushes back against John. “God, never anyone else. I want every part of you.” He pushes forward until he bottoms out inside Sherlock, the teeth of his zipper pressing into the soft flesh of Sherlock’s arse. He wants to stay there. Thinks he could die here, until Sherlock drops his hand and palms his cock. The motion of his hand translating through his hips to John’s cock.

****

He fights to keep himself from thrusting blindly and ending this in seconds, lets himself ride the motion of Sherlock’s hips. Falls further into the sensations, mapping the curve of Sherlock’s spine, the twist of the muscles in his arm as he pushes farther back onto John. John’s gaze follows the roll of Sherlock’s spine back to Sherlock’s arse, and the spit slicked slide of his cock. “Fuck. That’s gorgeous.”

****

Sherlock’s groan vibrates against the door, his hand twisting over his cock. “John, please.”

****

John digs his fingers into Sherlock’s hips, forcing him into stillness. Working deep before pulling back until just the head is inside Sherlock. “Did you think about the way my cock would look pushing into you? Did you get yourself off thinking about how I would fuck you?”

****

“I... John, I never got that far... I thought... about you watching me... Please.”

****

John slides forward, groaning as he sinks into Sherlock’s arse. “I didn’t know, fuck, you are.... perfect.” John’s hips grind deep into Sherlock. Pumping sharp hard thrusts that Sherlock matches with his hand. “I couldn’t... God... laid out like that.” The memory is sharp in John’s mind, merging with the pleasure he feels building in his gut. “I need to... Sherlock.”

****

Sherlock’s groan is enough to push John over the edge, he leans over and spits onto his hand again, letting his cock run through the moisture and into Sherlock. They both groan as John slides deeper, pulling Sherlock farther from the door and pushing his shoulders down to get a better angle.

****

John has always tried to be a considerate lover, but this isn’t love making. Or if it is John has never been in love before. This is pure and filthy pleasure. Sherlock stutters out John’s name, his fist flying over his cock and his nails scratching futile gouges into the paint of the door. Watching Sherlock come apart under him pushes John harder and faster than before and he sees the first wave of his orgasm pulse through his cock into Sherlock before his vision greys and his hips snap hard one final time.

****

Sherlock straightens and pulls forward, sliding himself off John. “God, are you?”

****

“Yes, John. May I shower?” Sherlock holds up his hand, streaked with his come for John to see, before bending to pick up his pajamas and using them to wipe his fingers clean.

****

John doesn’t want to give him permission, the greater part of his mind rebelling against the idea of Sherlock asking John for permission in the first place. The small, dangerous, part of his mind not wanting Sherlock out of his sight.

****

He decides saying nothing is the safest course of action, arranges his pants and trousers to cover himself and steps back, giving Sherlock space to move away.

****

Sherlock’s gaze sweeps him, taking in every detail. He’s covered himself with his pajamas, holding them in feeble defense against John’s eyes and hands. “John?”

****

“Everything. Just here.” John gestures out the window. “It has to stay the same out there, and you don’t need to ask.”

****

Sherlock nods and drops his hands away from his groin. His body relaxing, even as he holds John’s gaze. “Thank you, John.”

****

John tries not to flinch, worrying around the edges of his desire for Sherlock, trying to mute the monster in the back of his mind that would claim all of Sherlock. He turns and grimaces at the cold murky tea. “Go, shower. I’ll call about ink.”

****

There is a rustle as Sherlock picks up the rest of his clothes, and then the click of the lav door shutting before John lets himself sag against the counter. He wants to follow Sherlock, climb into the shower with him and scrub his skin clean. “Bit not good, Watson.”

****

_Concentrate_ , he shakes himself. Pushing off the counter and collecting his laptop and mobile from the sitting room. He looks up Mary, finds the shop that she works out of and calls. Against all hope and reason she answers the phone and he manages to set up a meeting in a couple hours, explains what he needs and sorts out some pricing. He’ll need to stop at a cashpoint on the way, the tattoo world operating mainly in cash.

****

By the time Sherlock returns to the sitting room John has mapped out suppliers for folding massage chairs, photocopiers and a small sterilizer for the machine and needles. He’s wincing at the potential cost when he looks up at Sherlock, pale skin warmed from the heat of the shower. He glows in the light of the sitting room. Unselfconsciously holding a neat stack of clothing. John stands and tests the lock on the sitting room door. “How often has Mrs. Hudson seen you naked?”

****

“If she has I’ve deleted it. She’s never mentioned it to you?” His eyebrow rises and he throws a smirk over his shoulder as he moves to his chair, dropping the pile of his clothing unceremoniously on the cushion.

****

John licks his lips, “No, she’s never said. Although knowing her she probably thought I was the cause.” He blushes and looks away, he will be the cause now, he’s going to have to be compulsive about locking the doors. It doesn’t keep her out, just slows her down and gives them a head start towards putting themselves together again. He chokes on the thought that she probably doesn’t mind the occasional eyeful of Sherlock.

****

“I’ve got an appointment with Mary, she’s going to sell me some ink. Because otherwise we’d have to wait for a shipment. Does Mycroft still monitor your internet purchases?”

****

Sherlock pulled a face that indicated that Mycroft was infact still interfering with Sherlock’s ability to buy hazardous chemicals from less than legitimate internet sources. “Fine, Mary takes cash, and she’s trustworthy.”  

****

There is a softness in Sherlock’s eyes, quickly smoothed away. “You can come along and meet her if you like. She doesn’t bite.” John offers and Sherlock accepts with a tilt of his head. “Right, I’ll just go... clean up.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry there wasn't any tattooing in this episode... I promise the next chapter is drenched in ink.
> 
> Oh right... there will be a next chapter. Because this happened and... well.
> 
> Also thanks to Antidiogenes and Innercircle for planting the plot bunny of Tattoo!johnstrade. It is percolating now, we'll see how long it takes to get out of my brain.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note, this chapter contains references to The Reichenbach Fall. It also includes blood and the emotions of a suicide survivor. If these things are triggery for you please proceed with due caution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love to a_xmasmurder for the beta on this chapter, also Provocatrixxx and Interrosand, for helping and making me finish this...
> 
> Many many apologies for the delay in posting this... the real world is sometimes quite damaging to my productivity. Thanks for sticking with me and reading this far.
> 
> There is tattooing in this chapter... 
> 
> There was much discussion as to Tattoo!Mary's casting... we decided on Alex Kingston, she's just a bit harder around the edges, which makes her perfect for this role. Also see if you can spot the cameo appearances of my other favourite characters!

Sherlock is sorting through the box of drawings when John returns to the sitting room. He’d taken his time in the shower, shaved with extra patience and attention and dressed with the care and concern of someone about to meet royalty, well someone-not-Sherlock about to meet royalty. John pokes and prods his sexual identity all the while, trying to determine if he has truly lost his mind or if he is about to have a crisis.

****

John couldn’t muster any surprise; apparently the last year of everyone assuming that he and Sherlock are shagging has prepared him for this. The response from his brain and libido seems to be a straightforward _Yes, and about bloody time too_.

****

John retrieves the stack of clothing from Sherlock’s chair, part of his brain- no strike that it was definitely his cock- wanting Sherlock to remain naked. “You should get dressed. She’ll be waiting for us.”

****

John watches as Sherlock considers the drawing of the cow skull before placing it on a pile. “Right leg.” He waves his hand over the remaining piles. “Right arm, torso, back, left arm, left leg.” John extends the pile of clothing and resists the urge to linger over the graze of knuckles as Sherlock accepts them.

****

He can’t see a pattern, Sherlockian organization at its finest. The small stack for the right arm, however, is now based on sheet music, Sherlock’s sharp neat handwritten music. John’s sight reading is rusty, and he doesn’t recognize the piece. John slides it from under his drawings. “I was hoping you would pick something... that was rather spur of the moment last night.”

****

Sherlock makes a noncommittal noise as he stands. John is lost again in the motions that cover Sherlock’s skin. He’s thankful when it is finished, feels protected now that Sherlock is dressed. “What is it? Something of yours?”

****

“Something Grandmere taught me. She must have written it.” Sherlock stoops to add his shoes.

****

John clutches the paper. Short of Mycroft’s existence and the obviously convoluted nature of their sibling relationship, John knows nothing about Sherlock’s family. Sherlock-before-John is a blank slate. Drugs? They haven’t actually discussed it, past that one moment in the sitting room, a moment that passed, one that anyone who wasn’t John would have cut and run from. Mycroft and cases. Greg has known Sherlock for years before John, and in that one night John knew more than him and nothing at all.

****

“Is there anything else? Anything for your family, or... I dunno, something from when you were a kid?” John stutters over the idea of Sherlock incomplete, but knows that he can’t have sprung fully formed from Mycroft's forehead.

****

Sherlock shudders, “Mycroft... no. Father was distant, Mummy was... Grandmere taught me violin,” he gestures at the sheet still clutched in John’s hand. “She kept bees and read me pirate stories. In French.”

****

“French pirates and bees.”

****

“Sentiment.”

****

John pushes the sheet music back underneath the other drawings for Sherlock’s arm. “Fine, let’s go.”

****

The cab ride to Mary’s shop is quiet. Sherlock fidgets with his phone and John holds himself as still as possible. They drive past a cashpoint before John remembers that he needs to stop. John’s had Sherlock’s card in his wallet for eons, can’t remember when it stopped being Sherlock’s and started being theirs, he withdraws enough cash for what he needs to buy from Mary without drawing attention from Mycroft.

****

The shop Mary works from is very nouveau tattoo, high ceilings and hardwood floors. No flash on the walls, understated and comforting rather than hard edged and abrasive. The sharp buzz of the tattoo is the same wherever you go and it makes John swallow and lick his lips. He inhales, drawing air deep into his lungs, not entirely successful in telling himself that he can’t smell the ink and blood over the stick of sandalwood incense Mary has left burning on the counter.

****

Mary rolls from behind a painted silk privacy screen, leaning away from her client to accommodate the cord attached to her machine. “Hey, I am very nearly, almost definitely finished. There is coffee in the pot, and mugs... Make yourself at home.” She waves them towards a comfortable looking loveseat with a black latex clad hand. There is a thermal carafe and several mugs on a little stand tucked behind the counter. John raises his eyebrow at Sherlock and receives a tiny nod in return. They haven’t eaten yet and John is surprised and gratified to find a box of pastries on the second level of the table. “God, John! Please eat those croissants, James here thought bribing me with carbs would make this rib piece hurt less.”

****

John smirks, uses a napkin to retrieve one of the croissants and sets it in front of Sherlock on the coffee table. The mugs all say “Keep Calm and Get Tattoos” and John can’t help but smile as he pours Sherlock’s cup, one and a half sugars if you please. He is gratified, and only a tiny bit surprised, to see Sherlock tearing small pieces from the baked good and putting them in his mouth. He settles next to Sherlock on the couch and sips at his own coffee.

****

His cock twitches as Sherlock licks a flake of pastry off his thumb, John shifts slightly on the couch, overcome with the desire to reach out with his left hand and curl his fingers into the hair above Sherlock’s collar. He doesn’t think Sherlock would resist, he’d just let himself be drawn over...

****

“John...” Sherlock’s eyes are wide, his fingers white against the dark fabric of his trousers, “Please, John, not here.”

****

“Later... After.”

****

“Yes.”

****

John closes his eyes, concentrates on the warmth of the coffee mug seeping into his fingers. “The music first.”

****

“Yes.” Sherlock is tense, but his voice is liquid silk.

****

John lets himself see the curl of the music, wrapping itself around Sherlock’s wrist and flowing towards his elbow. He realises that last night he drew it backwards, from his point of view, and mentally adjusts the image to curl towards Sherlock. It will look upside down to outsiders, but to Sherlock it will flow towards his heart, and when he plays he will be able to read it.

****

He hears Mary giving vague aftercare instructions to her client, “This isn’t your first rodeo, you know what to do... put the lotion on or you get the hose..”

****

James grunts in agreement and John hears the sound of the front door closing before he opens his eyes. Mary is standing in front of him, hands on hips, curly hair pulled back under a scarf, wearing her best “I know a secret” smile.

He stands and rounds the coffee table, lets her pull him close for a quick hug, turns to find Sherlock already standing beside them. “Mary Morstan, Sherlock Holmes.”

****

Mary smiles and offers her hand, John covers his surprise when Sherlock actually takes it and bends to press his lips to her knuckles. “Charmed, John has told me absolutely nothing about you.”

****

Mary’s smile deepens, “Well that is John for you, full of secrets.” She winks at John and pulls her fingers free of Sherlock.

****

“I’ve got a mass of  stuff for you. The guy who runs the shop is a techie, and he wanted a new copier with wifi or magical powers.” She waves her hand at the absurdity of technological developments. “So Bertha was going to the junkyard anyway, and I found a chair you can have... The ink people just sent over a tester kit, which should get you started. Do you have yours? I’ll pop it in the steamer, and you can have my spare in trade. Come by and swap them regular or I’ll hunt you down, yeah?”

****

“Yeah.” John had forgotten how single minded Mary could be, and her powers to obtain whatever was necessary for a given situation. “You are a miracle worker.”

****

“John. Flattery.”

****

John’s face takes on an expression of hurt innocence, “I’d never say it if it wasn’t true.”

****

Mary has indeed outdone John’s expectations. The care package she put together consists of the largest photocopier John has ever seen, a folding massage chair and a large box which contains everything anyone could need to set up their own private tattoo shop: foot pedal, cords and disposable cord covers, tiny bottles of ink in every colour and shade of black, latex gloves, needles and a machine in a sealed plastic pouch and a package of thermal transfer paper.

****

“I’m still not going to help you haul this stuff... I’m sure Sherlock is stronger than he looks.”

****

In the end John carries the copier, Sherlock slings the massage chair over his shoulder and hefts the box of supplies. John gives Mary more money than she asks for, and Sherlock insists she take it. They depart with promises to bring back her machine and swap for a clean one after every session.

****

The cab ride back to 221B is also quiet. Sherlock spends most of the journey looking out the window and doesn’t turn to look at John when he speaks, “You slept with her.”

****

“Yes, when we worked together. I haven’t seen her in years.”

****

“She’d like to again.”

John doesn’t smile, “I know. That’s not why...”

****

“I know. It is fine John.”

****

The cabbie helps them bring in the boxes, and Sherlock pays him at the door to the flat, following him out and slamming the front door behind him. John is still trying to sort out where to put Bertha when Sherlock returns.

 

“I’m sorry about before, I shouldn’t have... outside.”

****

“John, don’t be an idiot.” Sherlock locks the sitting room door and methodically strips off his clothing, folding it neatly and piling it on his chair.

****

They work in silence, John’s heart thumping in his chest. Sherlock ponders the chair for a moment, then shakes it out like a cloth and it clicks into place. He drapes a sheet over it and ties it down, adjusting the height of the supports until he is comfortable. John copies the music and cuts it into strips, runs his fingers over Sherlock’s arm, traces the curve of the lines.

****

Sherlock doesn’t flinch at the first touch of the tattoo, only inhales and watches John. John knows that this is temporary, the sensation at the beginning of a tattoo is nothing at all like the feeling at the end. This tattoo is not heavy, it will ghost over so much of Sherlock’s skin he won’t be able to prepare for the pain.  

****

“Tell me if you need to stop, or if you want to move, or change anything.” John adjusts the lamp beside him, and doesn’t speak again until he’s completed the fine lines around Sherlock’s arm. He goes back over each turn, filling in the music; he can almost hear it in his head, wonders if Sherlock has ever played it for him. He’s breathing hard, feels like he has been running an obstacle course at high altitudes. He wipes down Sherlock’s arm, clearing away ink and blood. He has to turn away and close his eyes, peel off his glove and press his fingers over the bridge of his nose. He knows Sherlock’s skin wouldn’t taste any different, that there would only be the bitter taste of blood and the non-taste of the chemicals in the ink. He blinks, expects to see darkness outside the windows, is surprised by the bright sunshine coursing through the curtains.

****

Sherlock isn’t looking at the tattoo, he’s watching John. John fumbles for the tube of ointment, pulls on a fresh glove and tries to focus on wrapping Sherlock’s arm. There’d been cling film and a tube of Mary’s favourite aftercare goop in the bottom of the box. John slathers Sherlock in all-natural aloe based goop and wraps the tattoo to keep it moist. “Too tight?”

****

Sherlock flexes his wrist, looking down at his arm for the first time. “It’s fine.” He frowns as though he is no longer sure the limb belongs to him.  

****

“Change your mind?” John’s heart thumps, as though it is trying to recreate the music on Sherlock’s skin.

****

“No.” The crease between his eyes deepens. “It hurts, and I can’t shut it out.”

****

John’s fingers skitter away from Sherlock’s arm, “I’m sorry.” He snaps the gloves off, balls them up into each other and tosses them into the empty box.

****

“What happens when I’m finished?”

John flinches, “Sherlock, even... no, it won’t be finished... what we have here is years. Just the ones I’ve drawn. God I wish I could, just all at once, but we’d die of starvation if we tried to go straight through... And sleep. And cases. Work to pay for more ink and electricity.” John tries to breathe through the panic that the idea of ending this causes in him, he feels like Scheherazade, spinning tales in ink instead of words.

****

It isn’t safe, and John allows himself to think about the futility of feeding addictions, allows himself to acknowledge the need to monitor his dosage, to control his cravings, before he pulls Sherlock close and Sherlock slides his mouth down over John’s cock before all thoughts are lost to sensation.

****

In the end of course they don’t have years, they don’t even have one. Sherlock is unfinished when John fails to talk him back from the edge of St. Barts. For one brief hysterical moment. as John takes the pulse of a corpse on the pavement, he thinks Sherlock must be leaking ink instead of blood. There is no hint of music on Sherlock’s skin, just above his pulse point where the treble clef should sit. He allows himself to doubt, to think that it wasn’t enough of Sherlock’s skin to be sure.

****

Until Molly tells him that Sherlock is gone -a careful choice of words that- not _dead_ , only gone.

****

“Where’s he _gone_ to then?”

****

And he could see it in Molly’s eyes, the hurt that she had tried to assuage by not lying to him. “I’m sorry John, I don’t know.”

****

From the outside, if you don’t know what to listen for, this could be some sort of religious conversation. Not knowing where Sherlock was in spirit. John feels sorry for Molly, she doesn’t know, but she tried to comfort him, she’d told the lie that was meant to protect him and as much as hates Sherlock for not coming to him for help, he couldn’t bear to look at Molly. That she had been the one Sherlock had trusted above him made his fingers tense and his eyes burn.

****

Mycroft apologizes, and he is ruined. John watches as Mycroft moves through 221B, doesn’t move from his chair, just digs his toes deeper into the carpet. The Holmes brothers have so much control over their appearance that John can’t be sure. He blames Mycroft, watches closely and sees the fracture move across his face. Mycroft, at least, is also in the dark. John doesn’t think that makes him feel better.

****

He goes to Ella, and the gravesite, because those are things that people do when they are in mourning. He tries to look, spends a week trying to track down someone from the Homeless network. Finally gives that up when a bartender slides him a note, and he spots a girl he recognizes sliding out the back door. _Stop drawing attention to us. We won’t help you_.

****

He calls Mary, asks if she was serious about the offer of a chair in her shop. Meets the shop owner, a skinny kid with dark hair and glasses, black and grey just peeking out of his shirtsleeves. He makes John feel cool, and very old at the same time, in his cardigan and thick frames. Mary works another miracle and finds his old portfolio. He gives her a pin-up red riding hood to show Q that he still has what it takes to work in a professional shop. He sits through the mandatory course on hygiene and gets his paperwork back.

****

Mrs. Hudson starts to worry about his odd hours, the fact that he is paying his rent in cash. He takes her to the shop, introduces her to Mary and worries for the state of England when they put their heads together.

****

Mary gives Mrs. Hudson a tattoo, but won’t tell John where or what it was. He breathes in through his nose and forcibly forgets about it.

****

He tattoos strangers, steadfastly refuses portraits and names of girlfriends, he doesn’t look up everytime the door chimes. He fails only occasionally at not seeing Sherlock waiting on the couch when he finishes with a client. There are entirely too many lanky young men with vicious cheekbones, makes himself look for the tattoos first. Everything else Sherlock could change.

****

He pushes away hope. There is nothing about Sherlock’s magic trick that means he will come back for John. To John. He knows he could leave, he could go anywhere and it wouldn’t matter to Sherlock. If Sherlock wants to find John he will. John can’t bear to leave London.

****

So he waits.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prettyarbitrary and others have planted the seed of other Tattoo!John stories in my head. At least one involving Lestrade.


	5. Special Announcement

Sorry, please don't hate me... I just wanted to let you know that there is a new part of this Verse. 

I've created a series, and will add any further updates to it. 

Just like John I seem to have a skin addiction.

/end of special announcement

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly unedited and lacking a beta. If something ugly rears its head at you please leave a comment or poke me with a stick

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for The Adventure of the Tattooed Doctor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/910853) by [moonblossom graphics (moonblossom)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom%20graphics)
  * [[Podfic] The Adventure of the Tattooed Doctor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/972128) by [consulting_smartass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consulting_smartass/pseuds/consulting_smartass)
  * [Desertification](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5038903) by [consultingsmartass (consulting_smartass)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consulting_smartass/pseuds/consultingsmartass)




End file.
